you slam it to me with farms that you dark on and off numb hideous strong friend... les amants du pont neuf & the powerline incarnation

When I ran to snatch the wires off our roof
hands bloomed teeth shouted I was almost seized
held back from this life
                                       O flumes     O chariot reins
you cover me with lurids deck me with gaudies feed
my coronal    a scream sings in the air
above our dance    you slam it to me with farms
that you dark on and off numb hideous strong friend
Tooma and Geehi freak and burr through me
rocks fire-trails damwalls mountain-ash trees slew
to darkness threw me    I zap them underfoot
with the swords of my shoes
                                               I am receiving mountains
piloting around me Crackenback    Anembo
the Fiery Walls    I make a hit in towns
I’ve never visited: smoke curls lightbulbs pop grey
discs hitch and slow    I plough the face of Mozart
and Johnny Cash    I bury and smooth their song
I crack it for copper links and fusebox spiders
I call my Friend from the circuitry of mixers
whipping cream for a birthday    I distract the immortal
Inhuman from hospitals
                                       to sustain my jazz
and here is Rigel in a glove of flesh
my starry hand discloses smoke, cold Angel.

Vehicles that run on death come howling into
our street with lights a thousandth of my blue
arms keep my wife from my beauty    from my species
the jewels in my tips
                                  I would accept her in
blind white remarriage    cover her with wealth
to arrest the heart    we’d share Apache leaps
crying out Disyzygy!
                                  shield her from me, humans
from this happiness I burn to share    this touch
sheet car    live ladder    wildfire garden shrub—
away off I hear the bombshell breakers thrown
diminishing me    a meaninglessness coming
over the circuits
                           the god’s deserting me
but I have dived in the mainstream    jumped the graphs
I have transited the dreams of crew-cut boys named Buzz
and the hardening music
                                         to the big bare place
where the strapped-down seekers, staining white clothes, come

to be shown the Zeitgeist
                                          passion and death my skin
my heart all logic    I am starring there
and must soon flame out
                                         having seen the present god
It who feels nothing    It who answers prayers.

that thin layer about the wet hot heat is godsland

Corporeal Friends are Spiritual Enemies by Deborah Birch on Mixcloud

Oh, Mickey you're so fine you're so fine you blow my mind hey mickey, hey hey mickey. White out. Blue light, dark out. Spears of accentuated mad flicker silver slap the jittery eyes, bugging bodies. Who moves you? smell of wet hot heat. wet hot inner under inner arms. inside groin. loins, clothed, modesty flaps in the armmade wind. heat ascends. rubber soled shoes, hermes winged messenger stripes of colour slap and push the solid world away. melts. Who knows you? un peu d'air sur terre. very clever campaign. But does it float? Caché. Were Jesus' loins holy? Were they ever touched, rubbed, loved? Did lips murmur over them? Stiff linen of the dead. White wash it. Near out. Light blue. Dark light. Did it rain that day? Back though, they are touching you there, face ascended to God's face. Those three used to be joined by sugared words, deadly laced strychnine arcs. How many dependents do you have? Dependence wha? Dependents, you know, spouse, kids? Ain't got none. No, two, gently laced arcs. Tell your intimates your intimates. Particles from the masticated cud, gentle arcs of the elect, Mani est vivant! Did St. Augustine eat the fig as well? Did he burp God? Mani could never have won, we know that now. We need God to grow in the hollows of ourselves, the vacuoles of man. He is the autophagy of our misfoldings, misdoings, miswiringhardgivings. He can not be in the fig. He can not be in the breath of those Ancient Greek gods. Inspiration, they breathed into Penelope, the other Sisyphus, weaver of Fatum woven by Moira, roller of Peter. Moons of Jupiter. Too many wives, too much jealousy. No, God in human hollows. Begins in not out. Much better. Perspiration. 99% sure to win in the end. Inspiration. We reserve the right to hope have faith in 1%. Sneakers dally with the floor. I… I can't touch… I can't touch you… Faces are wondering upward. Fingers in the warmth of caché spaces. Nothing so maddeningly moist as fig finger particles of God. Faces wondering upward. It is coming out of me. Upward. That's her friend. They were joined not two hours before and since they were 7. Slow arcs so slow the world seems real without them. Watched her cry, held her hand. Who would say such a thing to their own daughter. Wished she had never been born. More for other things. Silent imprecations against the whoreful mother of her friend. Should she die? Who have you disposed of in your thoughts? Fingered a hot wet tear, held her hand. One slow arc. Was it completed then or in the shopping mall, where three stole silently separately, emboldened by bright lights and identical rows. How to. Take it to the oversized women's section, for some reason there are never guards there, too self conscious already to steal. Trash taken for treasure. Treasures of time, bright lights, mad silver flicker in six eyes, and others too, countless, across lands. Give it away, moments mad lit moments are treasured, not matter. Don't fetishise thinginess, she said. Points in focus, slow directrix. Equidistant, but she was her, the maitresse. The directrix. The rest are fools along the arc, but it slowly traced from one to the other to the other to the one hot wet tear to the fingering finger. Was she Adam? They drunk old bottles of wine in the downstairs bathroom. Laughter bigger than bottles. Nux vomica. Arcs of amity. But there, switchblade eyes on her maitresse, whose wet hot fig fingered bright silver flicker, mad switchblade eyes on him, who wonders wanders down to groaning loins. Faces wondering skyward. Is she tasting God, wide pupils larger than saucers. Mad mad mad jealousy the slowest jitter, infinitesimally slowed, might miss it in armmade sneakermade slapping floating wind. But don't. It is there. Caché in shimmering slow boiling surface, perspiring sheen, melted glow. Lanced reality, that thin layer above the wet hot heat is godsland.

15.01.13

these plastic roses

hot milk

these pink roses
    some plastic shrine
       @ music's feet
                               unbroken divinity of eye / ear - 
       a prophecy     deep from within the skull's roots
                                     controlled miles of flexible oratory
    bouquets of plasticity stretching the petals of the bell
                   this sun     this bursting gaffaw
                                                 parked here at the edge of godsland     any jackson knows
       any queen whoever-shed-her-face-of-water knows
                               any revolutionary zookeeper knows
           any weaver of lace knows

any gone logic device knows
any virgin in search of the mystery knows
these unwaving toxic neo-industrial sad unscented roses
enshrined @ the feet of music know
those at the helm of the ship know
that which guides the rudder knows
uncontrollability in an inflexible space
madmen know
scientists know
the spirits
know
the married know
the sick
the lame
the intolerant know
somewhere in their inflexibly religious souls
the long gones know it
deep within their long gone elegant
tombs
           an unfathomable unity between forest & trees
           first & last hucksters
    even the hucksters know
           the soft walls know
           the high walls know
           the low walls know
           the hard walls know

      "I kill Bad aMericans"     -     a harder groove / the gloss of pearls


this holy heliocent
                               world of round holidays

even the humans know
the war/mongers know
the survivors beneath our soles     they know
twice octoped ghosts know
a sound-tale coming closer to inflexible plastic
the face of water
the quint of power
the laying on of long dawns

           prio priopas achordin
                   prio priopas     acru

   loosen confusion & broaden forms
    loosen confusion     & bro a     den       forms

there's that second before the petals melt
that moment before the shrines collapse
when we realize we are all prophets
& fortune tellers
when we all see what the future holds
speaks
tastes
touches
smells

the wise ones know
the idiots know
the rootless know
the innocent know
           the innocent know the innocent know..

steve dalachinsky nyc


do! listen to John Tchicai's free strings & Dalachinksy's words, hither>>
Tchicai's voice is hot coal and violets